


Star for the Kor'kron

by Ingridarcher



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: 5.3, Gen, darkspear rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingridarcher/pseuds/Ingridarcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Kor'kron reflects on the days when she used to defend Thrall, and comes to terms with her position now as defender of Warchief Garrosh, just in time for it to be too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star for the Kor'kron

_“_ **Get me a shaman!** _Yar’oa screeched to the dark, empty walls of the Warchief’s chambers, Malkorok starting in the doorway at the sight of Garrosh’s enormous body twitching violently on the rug, the glint of his yellow eyes glossed over, rolling back, the gurgle of suppressed retching in his thick throat. Malk flew back out, his panicked footsteps and ragged voice echoing down the halls. Yar’oa jumped when she felt something hot and sticky touch her knee and she turned her head, squinting._

_It was the assassin’s blood, black in the dark, blossoming out from the troll’s naked, gutted body a few feet away. Hellscream’s vice grip was loosening; he was fading, the poison taking its hold, and Thrall’s words echoed in her head. Her eyes flitted to window. The night sky was full of clouds and she couldn’t see the stars, and the leader she had been left to guard was dying in her arms._ I failed you, Son of Durotan, _she wailed in her mind,_ You told me to protect him and I failed.

_**** _

“You sway like you’re about to fall over, Narok,” Yar’oa japed, her smile carving deep lines up to her nostrils, “Can’t sleep on a ship?” She leaned back against the bulwark of the iron frigate, the torn, red sails whipping in the night wind, carrying their ship to the virgin continent. Narok pulled his helm off and grunted, digging his long claws into his scalp and scratching.

“Naw,” he told her, adjusting his black-and-golds. They were both too paranoid to take their armor off above-deck; the Alliance were just as surely sailing for the mysterious land-mass, their Warchief had told them. An attack could come at any time. Narok leaned forward against the rail and stared out into the black sea. Yar’oa’s grin softened, and she spun to look out with him.

“Hell, neither can I,” she growled, listening to the lapping waves, “used to be the waves would put me right to sleep, like a cradle, y'know...but ever since the exodus...” She sighed out long, slicking her grey hair back with the salty spray. “Nowadays we know well enough to sail around the Maelstrom, but back then? Hell, we didn't know if _anything_ was waiting for us on the other side of that damn puddle, except that Thrall said there was.”

Narok finally caught what Yar’oa was talking about and looked over to her in awe. He was young to be a Kor’kron, and a Frostwolf too. She grinned at him. Young Frostwolves were always greedy for tales of Thrall in the old days. Before the robes, before Orgrimmar. Before the years of failed peace-treaties and bleeding skirmishes sanded the fight out of him. She turned back to the sea. The waves were picking up.

“Four days in, the complaints started,” she told Narok, “‘Who’s this stripling Orgrim’s left us? He’s barely of age and we’re following him across an ocean because of a vision and some human’s word.’ Seven days passed and the doom-talk began. 'We're all going to die', they wailed, ‘Grom Hellscream and this shaman cuckoo's egg have sailed us out to our oblivion’...I remember the eighth night there was some meeting below decks to whisper 'mutiny.'”

Narok looked shocked. Most pups did any time anyone suggested that the Horde had ever been anything except unfalteringly devoted to the mighty Son of Durotan; at least, they had before Garrosh became their leader. Yar’oa chuckled, warm and scratchy, and clapped Narok on his armored bicep.

“I didn't want anything to do with it. I was in my hammock, sawin' logs and then there was this...this _lurch_ ,” Yar’oa put up her hands, like talons, as if she were holding something in them, “like something had grabbed the whole damn ship and tried to pull it under, and then this awful _crack_.” Yar’oa’s normally jovial face twisted, her wrinkles multiplying, viscerally remembering the moment. She looks back at Narok. “I come up the stairs and everyone's in a panic, rain's comin' down sideways, sky looks like we sailed into the middle of a cyclone. The boats we can see through the storm look like they're splittin' in half.”

Narok swallowed and gripped the rail when the ship was jolted from a strong wave, and Ya’oa threw her head back and laughed. Narok glowered at her, embarrassed, and pulled himself up straight. Without looking at the elder Kor’kron, he asked, “So...then what?” Yar’oa toyed with her thick septum ring, then looked out at the sea, smiling soberly.

“So then someone points out into the tempest and says 'look, look!'” she told him, “We look, and out on the flagship, standing on the prow in the middle of that hell, we see that boy Warchief in Orgrim's old armor, hands up and bellowin' his lungs out to whatever spirits would listen. And y'know...it wasn't like the sky parted or anything, but hell if we didn't get spat out not an hour later, beat to shit but alive. Four days later, we're on the shores of Kalimdor.” Yar’oa turned to Narok, a wide grin pushing the loose skin of her face up in a bunch, “Needless to say, the naysayers shut the hell up after that." Yar’oa stared out into the still sea, as if she was still looking for the young Warchief on a boat in the middle of a storm, "Still can't sleep on a ship, though."

A long silence stretched between the two of them, filled only by the white noise of the waves and wind, and the snap of the patched-together sail, frayed because there wasn’t enough time or dye or canvas to build the warships they needed. Maybe in this new land, there would be. Narok knocked his calloused knuckles against the rail; it clanged.

“Why is it, that since Hellscream took the throne, everything’s made of iron?” the young Frostwolf whispered. Yar’oa sighed.

“Because getting the wood we need would start a war with the Night Elves,” she answered, patiently. It was hard to see Narok’s expression, even right next to her; the clouds had blocked out the moon and stars.

“Since when was Hellscream afraid of a war?” Narok spat back. Yar’oa sighed and ran her gloved palm against the rail. It sang a dark, hollow melody. This ship wasn’t just any iron; it was dark iron. Ever since Malkorok had taken his place next to Garrosh, more and more Blackrocks had filled the Kor’kron ranks. If Yar was honest, it disgusted her...but unlike Narok, she remembered the same feeling when Thrall brought the undead into the Horde. She had since met strong and loyal Forsaken; elves and goblins as well.

“The night before Thrall left he spoke to me,” she said in a whisper, “I hadn’t said anything, but then with Thrall you never had to...After some pryin’ on his part, I told him I thought choosing Garrosh was a mistake. You know what he said?”

Narok shook his head expectantly. Yar’oa smiled soberly, “‘He’s not me,’ he said, ‘His heart is as true, his love for the Horde, as strong, but keep expecting him to be me and you’ll always be disappointed. It’s your duty to protect _him_ now, and he may need it more than I ever did. Remember that you are Kor’kron, Yar’oa; let that be the star that guides you.”

****

“They need meat,” Zaela snarled, her hand on the pommel of her axe, standing casually before the Warchief in Grommash Hold, staring him down like only a chieftain could, “but we can no longer allow the Drakes to hunt their own game as we used to. We’re hunting the Highlands dry for your war effort.”

“You believe in that war effort, don’t you, Dragonmaw?” Malkorok asked with a voice like an eel. Yar’oa said nothing, only smirked, standing attention at the Warchief’s side. Watching Zaela stomp Malkorok down was one of her favorite pastimes.

“Not if the Warchief starves my warbeasts to do it,” Zaela said nonchalantly before looking back to Hellscream, “I joined the Horde because I thought you were strong, Garrosh Hellscream. I have given you my men, my stores, and my loyalty; think about what your war has given us.” Yar’oa suppressed a whistle as the chieftain spun on her heels and marched out without being dismissed. Malkorok looked ready to bury his axe into the back of her head, but Garrosh growled to let her go. Only Zaela could walk all over the Warchief like that and get away with it; seeing how he watched her walking out, Yar’oa had her suspicions as to why.

“She’s not wrong,” Garrosh growled through clenched teeth, “Her people bring us game, and yours, Malkorok, bring us iron, but receive nothing because the trolls bleed us dry. Vol’jin still spits in my face, even from his grave.” Garrosh snarled, his face in his meaty hand.

“You know my position on _trolls_ , Warchief,” Malkorok spat, “Vol’jin’s dissent poisoned them all from the moment you took up the office. The only way to be rid of poison is to _purge_ it.” Yes, everyone knew how Malkorok felt about trolls, but for the first time, Yar saw something in Garrosh’s expression that made her think he might actually consider it. Her first instinct was the hold her tongue; hoping, praying to the ancestors that he would see the folly in that, that he would know just be looking at her.

_He’s not me_ , said Thrall’s voice in her head, and just as Garrosh opened his mouth to speak, Yar’oa asked permission to speak, surprised to hear her own voice come out almost desperate. Hellscream and Malkorok both looked up, surprised. Embarrassed, she flashed them a sheepish grin, “Warchief, I...don’t agree with Malk on this,” Yar said lamely, wondering if it would earn her a demotion, putting one of Malkorok’s more pliable Blackrocks in her place.

“What should I do then?” Garrosh asked, and when she looked at the Warchief’s expression she was surprised to find that he was earnest. She realized, then, why Thrall had told her that Garrosh would need her protection more than the Son of Durotan ever had.

“Not every Darkspear is a traitor,” she began, earning her a scoff from Malkorok, “They’ve lost their leader. Cairne had his boy to take over, but Vol’jin....The trolls are lost and hurting; give ‘em some time to heal up. Be yourself, true to the Horde, and they’ll come around.”

Hesitantly, Garrosh nodded. Malkorok rolled his eyes and snarled in frustration, but didn’t press the matter. Sighing in relief, Yar’oa stood back at attention. Garrosh rested his black jaw on his hand. “Now I just need to figure out how to feed Zaela’s dragons.”

****

Even with a thick, wooden door between the hall and his chamber, the hellscream ripped through Yar’oa’s eardrums and nearly made her topple over. She spun into action, scraping the key against the lock until it shoved hard into the slot. She turned it frantically and pushed the door open. Garrosh was on his feet, naked to the waist in his sleeping linens, his hand slowly lifting to his neck, his breath labored. Squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dark, Yar’oa saw the gore dripping off Garrosh’s legendary weapon; saw the corpse of a troll on the ground, a blowgun cradled in his thick fingers. She rushed to him, and beneath his hand she found them, three darts in a neat triangular pattern. She ripped them out in a rage, but he was already sinking to the floor, his legs giving out, the paralytic thrumming through his body. He grasped her forearm, his eyes full rage and hate. She could hear heavy footsteps running towards them.

“ _ **Get me a shaman!**_ ” Yar’oa screeched to the dark, empty walls of the Warchief’s chambers, Malkorok starting at the doorway at the sight of Garrosh’s enormous body twitching violently on the rug, the glint of his yellow eyes glossed over, rolling back, the gurgle of suppressed retching in his thick throat. Malk flew back out, his panicked footsteps and ragged voice echoing down the halls. Yar’oa jumped when she felt something hot and sticky touch her knee and she turned her head, squinting.

It was the assassin’s blood, black in the dark, blossoming out from the troll’s naked, gutted body a few feet away. Hellscream’s vice grip was loosening; he was fading, the poison taking its hold, and Thrall’s words echoed in her head. He eyes flitted to window. The night sky was full of clouds, and the leader she had been left to guard was dying in her arms. _I failed you, Son of Durotan,_ she wailed in her mind, _You told me to protect him and I failed._

Malkorok returned to the door with Narok, whose eyes went wild when he saw the Warchief on the ground. “Poison,” Yar told him frantically, and Narak hesitated only a second before dropping a totem and pushing Yar’oa away from him. She stumbled away, cold and ashamed as the Frostwolf began his work, prayers on his lips as he gesticulated over Garrosh’s body. Malkorok stomped over to the troll’s lifeless corpse and began kicking it over and over until he was screaming. There was a gasp, a desperate gulp for air as the Warchief’s body lurched up and then back to the floor, still. Narok shook his head, then reached to his side. The familiar song of a blade sang in Yar’oa’s ears as Narok produced a dagger.

“No!” she howled, leaping forward to grab Narok’s fist, to stop him, but an arm clasped wrist. She screeched and hissed, but it was Malkorok at her side, brindled in troll blood, holding her back.

Narok was cutting a line down Garrosh’s arm, letting the poisoned blood spill out as he charged spell after spell into the Warchief’s chest. The coppery taste of blood in the air became cool and damp, glowing blue, and Yar felt the spray of water on her cheek. Slowly, Garrosh’s chest began to rise steadily, and his eyes focused on the shaman over him, then what was left of the troll’s mangled corpse. Sighing with relief, Narok’s hand pressed the wound on Garrosh’s arm and dragged down. As he did, the cut faded to a wormlike scar, droplets of moisture collected on Garrosh’s brown skin. With Narok’s help, he sat up.

“What did you do, Narok?” she asked, shocked but relieved to see Hellscream coming back to himself. The shaman seemed to share her feelings.

“I had to bleed him,” Narok told her, his throat dry and raw, obviously exhausted by the effort, “The only way to be rid of poison-”

“-is to _purge_ it,” Garrosh finished in a haggard snarl. Yar’s heart went back into her throat. When he said it, he was looking right at Malkorok, and the blackrock grinned wide in answer. “Send word to Zaela. Tell her I know how we're going to feed her dragons.”

********  
  


Yar’oa clutched the thick mane of her war-wolf and pulled herself onto its back, the Horde standard snapping. The sun was sinking, the sky painted in broad strokes of pink and gold. Yar adjusted her new pauldrons again. She didn’t like the way they rested on her shoulders, digging into her clavicle when she raised her arm. Narok was at her side, squinting against the sunset, trying to block out the sound of screaming Darkspear; of deep, orcish laughter; of the flap of wide, leathery wings; of the _eating_. Yar’oa hoped he was having better success than she was.

“Come now, you two,” rasped one of the Blackrock Kor’kron, riding up beside them, “You’re missing the show!” Narok shot her a worried look through his helmet, and Yar sighed aloud, looking over her shoulder.

“We got assigned to scout ahead, Narok ‘nd me,” Yar lied easily, grinning her calm, warm, wrinkled grin at the Blackrock woman, “Shame, really. You ready yet, shaman-boy?” Beneath her helm, Yar narrowed her eyes at the Frostwolf, and he looked confused for only a moment.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with perhaps too much assurance. Yar chuckled at him, hoping the Blackrock wasn’t suspicious, then snapped the reins of her wolf and rode forward into the desert, Narok soon riding up beside her.

“Thank you,” he told her when they were out of earshot. Yar’oa waved it off at first, still smiling, until she caught sight of a large group ahead, huddled together and whispering. All races, Horde and Alliance, seemed to be accounted for, and in the center was one massive orc donned in a drab robe. She squinted. A hood covered his head, but she could see his arms, and around his neck, thick red shaman beads. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Is...is that really him?” Narok asked, in awe. Yar was almost as surprised. What was the Son of Durotan doing here?

“Look there!” called a trollish voice from the crowd, “Kor’kron!” Narok brightened, chest swelling with pride, ready to ride up and greet them when-

“Get them!” another voice howled from the crowd, “Free our bruddas!” The hairs on the back of Yar’s neck stood up as she heard the far of sound of bowstrings being pulled taut.

“Run, Narok, run!” she howled, spinning her wolf and slamming her heels into its side. The wolf snarled and burst into a run, kicking up a cloud of dust and arrows behind her. Narak was following at first, but pulled back, his wolf slowing to a stop. Yar’oa spun her wolf around and yelled to him.

“Come on, Narok! We need to warn the others! Do you want to get shot?” The shaman didn’t answer her, only slipped off his wolf and calling out the Thrall and the trolls, hands up in supplication. Yar’s eyes went wide as the moon...he wasn’t doing what she thought he was doing...was he?

“Son of Durotan, hold your fire!” the shaman called, taking careful steps forward, “I know what you come to fight. Let me fight it beside you.” Yar’oa didn’t know why it felt like someone tying a knot with her intestines...it shouldn’t. She knew Narok, but still, watching his back as he marched in among that crowd of rebels, all Yar’oa kept hearing in her mind was Coward. Her hands, sweaty, gripped the reins of her wolf as he turned to stand beside mighty Thrall, who turned his blue eyes onto her. She felt the air around her crackle and buzz, as as the sun sank behind them all they looked like a black cloud coming towards her. The Warchief’s face flashed in her mind; the sound of his voice when he asked her, earnestly, what he should do.

She realized then that Garrosh was that boy now, standing on the prow of the ship in the shadow of the former Warchief, holding his hands in the air and leading the Horde he loved into uncertainty as below the decks his army whispered _mutiny_. Thrall wasn’t a boy anymore... _he was the storm_.

She turned her wolf out of the way just in time as blaze of lightning cracked beside her. She sucked in a breath, kicked her wolf’s side, and rode back to the camp, the whistle of arrows dying behind her.

****

“What do you mean Thrall is with them?” Lo’gek asked, pulling off his stifling helmet and looking to Yar in disbelief. Like her, he had guarded Thrall once, and had not yet been replaced with one of Malkorok’s Blackrock cronies. She recognized the hurt in his eyes and she sucked in a breath.

“He’s got himself a ragtag bunch, that’s for sure. They’re coming to free the captives, and ancestors know what else. Don’t seem enough to re-take the city, but...” She wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. This was the Son of Durotan they were talking about...She remembered the way he’d settled his blue gaze on her and shuddered. “Form a line, you sacks! Protect the gates and defend the Warlord at all costs.”

A memory, a voice speaking, the tallow and leather smell of the old Grommash Hold, flooded her mind in that moment and she felt suddenly like she had a rock in her throat. She swallowed it down, looking up into the sky. It was twilight now, and in the pale, purple sky, she could see a pinpoint of light winking down at her. Behind her, she heard the creak of bowstrings being pulled back; the distant roll of thunder.

“It is your duty to protect _Garrosh_ now,” she told them, “Remember that you are Kor’kron; let that be the star that guides you.”

 


End file.
